


Suspended chord

by writing_escapism



Category: Pitch Perfect (Movies)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-29
Updated: 2018-04-29
Packaged: 2019-04-29 11:48:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14472135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writing_escapism/pseuds/writing_escapism
Summary: Suspended chords: Unresolved chords that you aren't sure if they are minor or major until the  next chord is played.The Bellas had both lovingly and sarcastically described you as their “mini-music-machine”. A legendary creature born with a heart incapable of straying off beat, and an internal tempo that pervaded your every movement. To an extent it was true, you were pretty much incapable of walking and talking. The rhythmic tap, shuffle of footfalls beckoning you into a different conversation





	Suspended chord

The Bellas had both lovingly and sarcastically described you as their “mini-music-machine”. A legendary creature born with a heart incapable of straying off beat, and an internal tempo that pervaded your every movement. To an extent it was true, you were pretty much incapable of walking and talking. The rhythmic tap, shuffle of footfalls beckoning you into a different conversation. On the rare days it rained in Georgia, perfect Zap-splats echoed from converse clad feet hitting puddles. The muffled sound of walking on a beach as if each foot was apologizing to the disturbed sand grains. Your favorite, the creaking reverberations from the worn floorboards in the second-floor corridor of the Bellas' house. Walking was like laying down a base track and your brain couldn’t help but add layers on top of it. You weren’t born a musician, not like Chloe who had always had a song straining against her rip cage or Cynthia Rose who’s first word Da-da was accompanied with tiny fists double tapping the table. No music, music kinda snuck up on you.

Growing up, your house was packed with tension, each year the parental sparring matches increased until seemingly they only spoke to each other at the jarring decibel level. You remember hearing the bickering as you hid in your bedroom. That was the first time you shoved your earphones on and jacked the volume all the way up. And surprisingly it helped, the yelling of your parents fading out till they were simply dissonant chords in the background of Monica’s musical narrative of why the boy was hers, which, really, duh that other girl needed to back the truck up! Overnight your headphones became a permanent feature of your outfit and buying new music your favorite hobby. When your parents in a rare act of unity insisted you take up a activity, you choose to learn the loudest instrument you could think of, the drums.

The first time you sat on the leather topped stool, bookended by snare drums on your right and cymbals to your left, you had felt tiny and overwhelmed. As you procrastinated spinning the sticks in your hands, you hear the raised alto voice of your mother crashing into the storming baritone of your father. Fuck it, you thought as you pound the drum pedal and smash the ride cymbal. Fuck it, fuck it, why do, they, fight. Fuck it, fuck it, bang, bang, smash. Boom, boom, bang, bang smash. You played to drown out the yelling, you played to pour the competing anger and sadness out and then…. and then you played cause when creating that thumping, booming noise you forgot everything but the slight shake of the stick as it cracked the cymbal, the pleasant ache in your forearms, and the intoxicating rush to catch the beat. As you grew older drums beats became electronics beats and with it the ability to craft your own musical score to replace the shitty narrative that you had been dealt. So, no you weren’t born with the goddess of music whispering in your ear, instead you stumbled across her home on a stormy night and just never left.


End file.
